Arda Marred
by Dorothea Bowens
Summary: In the wake of a wedding, the city of Tirion is restless. Apprentice Loremaster Fanamár and the pastry chef Minyanónë discover that their lives are curiously intertwined as they follow the fate of Arda Marred and watch the world fall from beauty into ruin.
1. PART I: Tirion upon Túna

**Chapter One: Tirion upon Túna**

 _"Now it came to pass that Finwë took as his second wife Indis the Fair. She was a Vanya, close kin of Ingwë the High King, golden-haired and tall, and in all ways unlike Míriel. Finwë loved her greatly, and was glad again. But the shadow of Míriel did not depart from the house of Finwë, nor from his heart; and of all whom he loved Fëanor had ever the chief share of his thought. - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion_

* * *

 **Fanamár**

Fanamár was about to take her first bite of breakfast when her father announced King Finwë's impending marriage to Indis of the Vanyar.

Her mother dropped her spoon, scattering rye porridge across the table. "Surely not!" she said, sounding scandalized.

"It's true," her father said. "In fact, he's getting married _soon_. But to a Vanyar! They are proud Elves. To think the High King would marry into them. Such a surprise, isn't it?"

"You shouldn't gossip, Alcarcalimo," her mother said disapprovingly. "It sets a bad example for Melime."

"I don't mind," Fanamár said quickly, who had been keeping quiet in hopes of hearing more.

"I don't gossip. I heard it from Órecalo," her father said defensively. "He practically cornered me yesterday afternoon to ask if I knew anything about it."

"I can't believe Órecalo found out before you did," Fanamár mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you usually have attentive ears, _Atto_ ," Fanamár said mildly, poking her table knife into a jar of marmalade. "Ow!"

"Use your butter knife, dear," her mother said sternly, having just knocked her spoon across her daughter's knuckles.

"Sorry, _Amya_." Fanamár picked up her butter knife. "Only, isn't it strange that you didn't hear of it at all, _Atto?_ You practically have lunch with the King every day."

"First of all, I don't have lunch with him. I'm only a chancellor. And secondly, don't speak with your mouth full, or your mother will start exercising her spoon again."

"Quite right," her mother said. She rose from her seat and went to the small closet in the hall, taking out her daughter's cloak. "Do hurry, Melime, or you'll be late for your meeting with Elulindo."

"You'll be late home, Lótetári?" her father called from the table.

"Yes, I'm going to be busy at the forge today, I expect."

Fanamár swallowed the rest of her breakfast and bounced out of her chair. "Ready to go, _Amya_." She took the cloak from her mother's hand and pinned it carelessly into place. " _Namárië._ Please take care of the dishes, _Atto._ "

"Such a loving, helpful daughter," she heard her father say in a dry tone as she careened out the door. She smothered a chuckle and set off in the direction of Galathilion. In the distance, the golden light of Laurelin had begun to mix with the silver of Telperion; it was already the sixth hour.

Her father, one of King Finwë's chancellors, would soon leave the house as well. Fanamár guessed that there would be much counselling to do this day if the rumors were true, given that Lady Indis was a favorite of her uncle, High King Ingwë.

The streets of Tirion sparkled in Laurelin's growing light. Fanamár hummed a soft tune to herself as she passed the countless white houses on her way to the Great Square, murmuring soft greetings when she spotted an acquaintance.

When she reached Galathilion, she paused and frowned. There were several Vanyarin Elves wandering about—one of them appeared to be reciting poetry to a flower—and two or three Noldorin Elves, but there was no flash of silver among the golden and dark heads.

"Not again," she muttered, and then jumped as someone tapped her on the shoulder. "Ai—oh, it's _you,_ " she said grumpily to the tall Telerin Elf who was smiling down at her. "I thought you'd forgotten about our meeting."

" _Mára aurë,_ Fana." Elulindo's voice was a thing of beauty, solemn and deep, sonorous as a bell. High King Olwë often found excuses for his son to recite at festivals, whether it be a poem or an anecdote. Once, when he ran out of material, he asked Elulindo to read from Mahtan Aulendur's newest treatise on horseshoes. His son had politely refused.

" _Mára aurë_. Why do you look like you fell into a river on the way here?"

Elulindo looked down at his sodden robes. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

"Don't tell me you actually fell into a river."

He gave her a sheepish look. "The bird I was following had a beautiful song, and I was rather distracted."

Fanamár sighed. "Do you really think that the Mindon Eldaliéva's Library will let in a soaked Telerin Elf to drip all over their precious manuscripts?"

He shrugged helplessly. "It really did have a beautiful song."

The Lindar, as the Telerin called themselves, were all Elves of song, but Elulindo's voice and love of singing were unrivalled even amongst his people. As he stared at her pleadingly, Fanamár relented. "I suppose we could go to the Library another day."

"You don't really _need_ me in the Library," Elulindo said, sounding relieved. "Do you, future _Lambengolmo_?"

"I was hoping you'd help me with some research on the Nandor, as you well know," Fanamár said, "but obviously that won't be happening today. Or ever, if you keep chasing after every songbird that catches your attention."

"I didn't think you were serious. Why would you even choose to write on such a topic?"

"Master Rúmil asked me to. It will be a part of my studies with him."

"The Nandor are boring," Elulindo said dismissively. "If you ask me, the Úmanyar must have no great culture. They were not even open-minded enough to complete the journey to Aman."

"Were you there to see them, Great Prince?" Fanamár said politely.

He reddened. "Well, that's just what my father says."

Fanamár remained tactfully silent.

"How is Lady Lótetári?" Elulindo said hastily.

"My mother is very well, thank you. She says you need to come by sometime in order to try her newest recipe for apple pie." Fanamár gestured to a nearby marble bench, and without waiting, sat down.

Elulindo joined her. "And Lord Alcarcalimo?"

"Also well. I expect he'll be busy today."

"Ah, yes. The marriage is going ahead, then?"

"Has _everyone_ heard of this marriage?" Fanamár demanded.

"I heard of it only yesterday," Elulindo said. He glanced around, mindful that they were very close to King Finwë's house, and lowered his voice. "My father isn't happy about it."

"I'm guessing that many people won't be. Apart from King Finwë. And maybe King Ingwë. And Lady Indis."

Elulindo's voice lowered further. "And the worst of it, I hear, is that King Finwë wants his son in attendance at the marriage feast."

Fanamár felt her eyes widen at the mention of King Finwë's son. _Fëanáro._ The mere mention of his name invoked awe and respect. Even Master Rúmil had gruffly recommended that she look for an opportunity to study with the Noldorin Prince. "His appetite for knowledge is enormous," Rúmil had commented during a dusty afternoon spent on writing the _Annals of Valinor._ "And his amount of accumulated knowledge is famous."

Equally famous, of course, was the fact that Prince Fëanáro had a quick temper and an enduring love for his mother, Þerindë, whose _fëa_ now rested in the Halls of Mandos. Fanamár had a feeling that this combination would not appreciate the announcement of King Finwë's remarriage.

"That would be a terrible idea," Fanamár whispered.

"It is," Elulindo agreed. "I don't think Fëanáro would be very happy to attend. I've only met him on some occasions, but he has changed since his mother's…departure. He would not take the idea of a remarriage lightly."

"Let us hope that all will go well."

"But this is all speculation, of course." Elulindo sat back and pulled his wet sleeve from his arm. "We don't know if the marriage will actually happen."

"I suppose," Fanamár said. She shivered, despite the day being quite warm. "And I suppose we don't know if the marriage feast will be as bad as we imagine it to be."

As it turned out, it was.

* * *

 **A/N**

Introduction to Fanamár (Sindarin: Fanbâr)

Father-name: _Fanamár_ (lit. "house of veils"), sometimes shortened to Fana

Mother-name: _Melime_ (lit. "beloved")

Character Guide:

 _Alcarcalimo_ (lit. "bright splendor") - Fanamár's father, chancellor to Finwë *

 _Lótetári_ (lit. "queen of flowers") - Fanamár's mother, a smith *

 _Elulindo_ (lit. "blue singer") - son of Olwë

 _Fëanáro_ \- Finwë's son, High Prince of the Noldor

 _Finwë_ \- High King of the Noldor

 _Indis_ \- second wife of Finwë

 _Ingwë -_ High King of the Vanyar, uncle of Indis

 _Mahtan_ \- Fëanáro's father-in-law and greatest smith of the Noldor

 _Olwë -_ High King of the Teleri

 _Órecalo_ (lit. "mind-light") - chief librarian at the Mindon Eldaliéva Library *

 _Rúmil_ \- a Loremaster of the Noldor

 _Þerindë_ \- first wife of Finwë

* fictional characters

Quenya Guide:

 _Aman_ \- blessed land

 _Atto_ \- dad

 _Amya -_ mom

 _Fëa_ \- spirit

 _Lambengolmo_ \- loremaster

 _Mára aurë_ \- good day

 _Namárië_ \- farewell

 _Nandor_ \- those who go back (refers to the the Telerin Úmanyar)


	2. The Pastry Chef

**Chapter Two: The Pastry Chef**

 _"The Noldor were beloved of Aulë, and he and his people came often among them. Great became their knowledge and their skill; yet even greater was their thirst for more knowledge, and in many things they soon surpassed their teachers." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion_

* * *

 **Minyanónë**

The Elf known as Alcarataro had been named to be his father's glory, but he had no love for hunting or fencing.

He preferred instead to cook.

This did not sit well with his father, who was rather embarrassed that his son, a tall well-built Noldorin with the skill for swordplay and a fair talent for equestrianism, found it favorable to spend his days designing new pastries to grace King Finwë's dining table.

As it was, Alcarataro now went by his _amilessë_ Minyanónë, to lessen the impact of his father's accusing stare whenever the family gathered for their weekly dinner. Nevertheless, his father always found something to criticize.

Tonight, it was his hair.

"It's tied like a Telerin Elf's," his father was saying in withering tones. "Just look at it. No gold threaded through it, no beads. You've tied it back into a crude ponytail like one of those sea-lovers. If your hair were any lighter in color, you'd be mistaken for one of them on the streets."

Minyanónë's youngest brother Vanyamehtar, whose golden hair was even lighter than their mother's, suddenly appeared to be very interested in the contents of his bowl.

"There's nothing wrong with light-colored hair," their mother said reproachfully. Her own hair, bright as a coin, gleamed in Telperion's light as it filtered through the window. It was the third hour, and the White Tree was in full bloom.

"Of course there isn't. It looks fantastic on you. But he's supposed to have dark hair, and he's _Noldorin,_ isn't he? Why's he decked himself like a Lindar, eh?"

"Technically we're half-Vanyarin," Minyanónë's younger brother Máratúro muttered to the fish on his plate. He was not by nature a patient person, and their father's constant haranguing easily wore down his nerves. Furthermore, Máratúro wanted to be a poet. Minyanónë had a fair idea what his father would say about _that._

"I'll tie it in braids next time, _Atar_ ," Minyanónë said, stepping on his Máratúro's foot under the table. He ignored his brother's muffled yelp. "I'm sorry for appearing in such a manner. It won't happen again."

Having no response to this statement, his father harrumphed and stabbed his fish. Their mother let out a weary sigh and asked, "Does anyone want more stew?"

"I do," Vanyamehtar said, his voice overly bright in an obvious attempt to dispel the tension. "It's delicious, _Amil._ Fantastic—er, spices."

They spent the rest of the dinner in silence.

After dinner, their mother departed to stargaze while their father retreated into his study with a frosty air, leaving the three siblings to deal with the cleanup. Vanyamehtar was in charge of collecting the dishes while his two older brothers washed and dried them.

"I don't know how you stand it," Máratúro said as he scrubbed at an oily plate, "what with _Amil_ insisting that you come home to dinner every week and _Atar_ taking every chance to grill you over an open flame."

"It comes with the job," Minyanónë said, setting a dried bowl aside. "Cooks can't be afraid of the fire if they want to succeed."

"I don't mean an actual flame, and you know it, Minyo." Máratúro's scrubbing turned ferocious. "It's so stupid. Why'd he have to name us the way he did? I don't even know what sort of victory he expects out of me. And Vanyo is more suited to being a scholar than a warrior. He can barely stab a piece of bread with a table knife."

"I heard that," Vanyamehtar said as he came through the kitchen door.

"Well, what of it? You don't even like swordplay." Máratúro took the stewpot from his brother. "Is that it?"

"Yes, I'll just go clean the table now."

Minyanónë wiped a bowl carefully. "The important thing, Máratúro, is that we're happy as a family. Worse things could happen."

Máratúro sighed. "I'm guessing you're talking about King Finwë and Lady Indis, aren't you?" He dumped the plate back into the sink and rinsed it again, and lowered his voice. "I wonder what his eldest will think of it."

"We shouldn't talk of such things here," Minyanónë said, his voice even lower. "Not where Vanyo might hear."

"Everyone knows what's going on in Tirion right now, Minyo. It's not as though King Finwë's remarriage is a massive secret."

"Still. Gossip is not something to be encouraged."

"Will you be helping with the marriage feast?" Máratúro said interestedly. "I know you're usually busy with making the meals for the High King, but _Atar_ was muttering something about his son's embarrassment becoming public, so I thought you'd be involved with the marriage feast preparations."

"I am," Minyanónë admitted. "Dessert, mostly."

"Ah, then I hope our family will get an invitation. Your desserts are always sublime."

"Such kind words. Be careful you don't let _Atar_ hear you saying that."

"I'll say whatever I want. I'm turning eighty soon—there's no point in maturing, if you don't learn to stand up for yourself. Ah, Vanyo, are you done with the table already?"

"Yes," said Vanyamehtar, entering the kitchen again. "I see you've been making progress as well, Máro, since you're still cleaning the same plate."

Máratúro glanced down at his hands. "I'm making this one extra clean."

Vanyamehtar gave him a patently skeptical glance and looked at Minyanónë. "Are you really going to be helping with the marriage feast?"

"Were you eavesdropping again?" Minyanónë said without ire.

"Yes," Vanyamehtar said, unashamed. "But the thing is, I think you ought to be careful whom you speak to at the marriage feast."

"I might not be in attendance."

"King Finwë always invites his household," Vanyamehtar said, "and that includes his son, the High Prince. They say his anger is like that of an unchecked fire."

"As I told your brother," Minyanónë said, "cooks cannot be afraid of fire."

"This fire might be one you'd like to avoid," Vanyamehtar said somberly. He had the gentle voice of their mother, but the grave countenance of their father, and it was difficult sometimes to remember that he was the youngest of the three of them. "I've seen him from a distance, once. His very _fëa_ seemed to burn. I don't want to think about what he would be like with his temper unleashed."

Minyanónë looked from Vanyamehtar's concerned face to Máratúro's curious one, and said, "Very well. I'll be careful, _if_ it happens that I am invited to the marriage feast, and _if_ I do happen to bump into the High Prince."

"Ah, thank the Valar," Vanyamehtar breathed. "I thought you would be stubborn as usual."

"I don't know what you mean, Vanyo."

"Only that you often like to dig your heels in like a mule."

"Do I ever?"

"You always do," Vanyamehtar said. "Otherwise, _Atar_ would have you slaving away over some book with a title like _Seventy-Seven Ways to Swing Your Sword from a Right Angle._ "

"One wonders if the High Prince could ever be happy with all of this." Máratúro sounded thoughtful. "It can't be easy for him, watching his father marry someone so different from his mother."

"That is only something we can imagine, never know," Minyanónë said. "And besides, there is hope yet that he could accept Lady Indis, if only for his father's sake. The High King is beloved to his son."

"Yes," Máratúro said, "but from what I can tell, the Lady Indis is not particularly beloved to him, nor does it appear that she ever will be."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Introduction to Minyanónë (Sindarin: Meinonnen)

Father-name: _Alcarataro_ (lit. "father's glory")

Mother-name: _Minyanónë_ (lit. "firstborn"), sometimes shortened to Minyo

Character Guide:

 _Aryáro_ (lit. "the venerable") - Minyanónë's father, a counsellor to King Finwë *

 _Lotórie_ (lit. "the flourishing") - Minyanónë's mother, an astrologer *

 _Máratúro_ (lit. "good victory"), sometimes shortened to Máro - Minyanónë's younger brother *

 _Vanyamehtar_ (lit. "fair warrior"), sometimes shortened to Vanyo - Minyanónë's youngest brother *

* fictional character

Quenya Guide:

 _Atar_ \- father (more formal than _Atto_ )

 _Amil_ \- mother (more formal than _Amya_ )

 _Amilessë_ \- mother-name

 _Fëa_ \- spirit


	3. A Wedding of Great Love

**Chapter Three: A Wedding of Great Love**

 _"The wedding of his father was not pleasing to Fëanor; and he had no great love for Indis, nor for Fingolfin and Finarfin, her sons…In those unhappy things which later came to pass, and in which Fëanor was the leader, many saw the effect of this breach within the house of Finwë, judging that if Finwë had endured his loss and been content with the fathering of his mighty son, the courses of Fëanor would have been otherwise, and great evil might have been prevented." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion_

* * *

 **Fanamár**

The marriage feast was even worse than she had expected it to be.

For one thing, as she happened to be one of the shorter Elves in Aman, Fanamár found herself looking mostly at the shoulder blades of the Vanyarin folk who were seated in front of her. For another, during the exchanging of the betrothal rings, High Prince Fëanáro stared at the wall behind his father's head and looked as though he wanted to burn it down.

And then there was the matter of the feast. Fanamár had never been schooled in the stiff etiquette of formal dining, but surely one didn't need three spoons and four forks to eat a simple dinner. She watched her Vanyarin neighbor with desperation, and was somewhat shocked when she started sawing at a roll of bread with her knife and fork.

Elulindo was not in attendance. This was no great surprise to her-the Teleri did not have the warmest relationship with the Vanyar or the Noldor, as was evidenced by the tiny and insignificant diplomatic party they had sent-but she would have liked it if he had come. At least she wouldn't have felt so terribly awkward and out of place.

Her parents were sitting on opposite ends of the table, her father having been shepherded towards the nobles while her mother wandered off to greet some cousin she hadn't seen in several decades.

Fanamár slouched down. She would have happily spent the rest of the feast unnoticed, but suddenly the Vanya next to her turned and said, "I can't remember if I'm supposed to use the second or the third spoon."

Abruptly jolted out of her musings, Fanamár stammered, "W-what spoon?"

The Vanya laughed. "Oh my. I'm sorry for addressing you so abruptly, it's just that this silence was getting awfully awkward, wasn't it?"

"I guess so," Fanamár said uncertainly. The Vanya had beautiful golden hair and her grey eyes were as clear as a summer pond, and Fanamár suddenly felt very small and insignificant and somewhat unattractive.

"I'm Amarië," the Vanya said, leaning in. Even her voice was pretty. "What's your name?"

"Fanamár."

" _Vandë omentaina,_ Fanamár. You've a pretty city here. I don't come often to Tirion, but I admire it anew every time I do."

"You live at the base of Taniquetil, then?"

"Yes, with most of my people." Amarië smiled. "The Noldorin have such skill with-well, everything. So learned in lore and languages and craftsmanship! Although, I do feel that I must boast and say that Vanyarin poetry is superior, if you'll excuse my vanity."

"I'll be the first to admit it," Fanamár said immediately. The Noldor were good at making swords and jewels, but their poetry was only passable when compared to the Vanyar's. In fact, it could be pretty atrocious, depending on how drunk the poet was at the time.

"Oh, good. You're very kind to let me have my way." She gave a gasp. "Wait. You're not a poet, are you?"

"No," Fanamár said amusedly, "I'm studying to be a _Lambengolmo_."

"A Loremaster! How incredible! Who is your teacher?"

"Master Rúmil," she said, unable to completely squash the flicker of pride in her voice.

"You really do put me to shame," Amarië said. "I am but a humble minstrel and harpist."

"Now _you're_ putting me to shame," Fanamár said. "My singing is mediocre and my skills with the harp are even worse."

"To each his own strength," Amarië said with a laugh, lifting her cup of wine. She took a sip and then examined the cutlery and said, "I don't suppose anyone would notice if I used the wrong spoon."

"Er-" Fanamár cast a glance over the room. High Prince Fëanáro had vanished without a word in the middle of the feast; High King Finwë was smiling sadly at the door, while Lady-no, Queen now-Queen Indis was crying tears. Happiness, likely. "No, I don't think anyone would notice."

Amarië followed her gaze. "Lady Indis would make a fine queen," she said quietly. "Though she is Vanyarin, she will do her best to…adapt. I am sure of it."

Fanamár looked at her in surprise. "I didn't say anything about it."

"No, but…I have heard that some of the Noldor do not like the idea of King Finwë marrying again." Amarië hesitated, as though afraid to offend, but she took a deep breath and plowed on. "You should know, though, that Lady Indis is noble of heart. She means no harm, and longs only to provide good leadership."

"I'm sure she would," Fanamár said carefully, having no idea what this clumsy diplomacy was supposed to mean.

"And-and she is marrying King Finwë out of a love that she has borne for years. She would make him a good wife. She has many qualities that she would bring forth. She is loyal. And bakes wonderful cookies."

 _Ah._ Understanding dawned. "You are friends with her."

Amarië bit her lip. "Yes. Even though she is a close relative of King Ingwë, she…she remains very kind." She looked at Fanamár, swallowing hard. "I know you are the chancellor's daughter. His word must have some weight. It is very rash and self-serving of me to do this, but I thought…I was thinking that perhaps…perhaps you could tell them? Speak good of her when they ask?"

"I cannot lie. I don't even know her." But Fanamár felt a rush of sympathy for the Vanyarin Elf. For both Vanyarin Elves, lost in the city of Tirion where they didn't belong. _The Vanyar are proud Elves,_ Fanamár remembered her father saying, but here was one who was willing to humble herself for the sake of a friend. "I will ask my father," she said gently, "if only for the sake of peace amongst the Noldorin."

Amarië's eyes softened with relief. "Thank you."

She shrugged. "It is nothing, truly."

"No, it is something to me." Amarië reached out and took her hand. "You are so sweet, and you have such a warm heart. Illisse, they should call you, not Fanamár."

Fanamár smiled. "Call me Fana," she said.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Character Guide:

 _Amarië -_ a Vanyarin Elf

 _Illisse_ (lit. "all sweetness") - an _epessë_ given to Fanamár by Amarië

Quenya Guide:

 _Epessë -_ after-name; a nickname or honorific

 _Vandë omentaina_ \- well met


	4. Indis the Fair

**Chapter Four: Indis the Fair**

 _"There was a fair lady of the Vanyar, Indis of the House of Ingwë. She had loved Finwë in her heart, ever since the days when the Vanyar and the Noldor lived close together." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Peoples of Middle-earth: The Shibboleth of Fëanor_

* * *

 **Minyanónë**

"Don't put on so much sugar! If you are going to drizzle honey as well, too much of that will make the King and his guests sick!" Minyanónë called to his assistant. He grabbed one of the apprentices by the arm before he could scatter a spoonful of cinnamon over the second-last dish, a platter of twice-baked biscuits. "You can't scatter it evenly this way. It's too firmly packed, the cinnamon needs to be loosened. Go on."

The apprentice stammered out an apology and turned away, still clutching the spoon in a pincer grip.

Minyanónë pushed his hair back from his sweaty face, wishing that he had tied it back instead of braiding it. _I am never listening to Atar again. This was a terrible idea. Who cares if I look like a Telerin Elf?_ Certainly not the apple tarts, which, he realized, were still in the oven. Covering his hands with damp cloths, he carefully slid the tray out and balanced it on the large wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

"Somebody grab a serving plate," he barked. "One of the large ones with flowers painted around the sides."

"I've got it, sir," another apprentice said, handing it to him.

Minyanónë picked up the tarts, barely feeling their heat, and arranged them neatly on the plate. He examined them with satisfaction: the apples had been sliced paper-thin and arranged in the shape of flowers. The crust, buttery and golden, was baked to look like leaves. Gold leaf decorated the edges of the apples, glittering under the bright lamplight.

" _Ilvana_ ," he murmured. The last dish was ready. In a louder voice, he said, "Restawen."

"Yes, sir?"

"These tarts are ready to be served."

"I'll take care of it, sir," said the female apprentice. She took the plate from him and disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors.

Minyanónë wiped his hands down on his apron and clapped. Immediately, the bustling of the kitchen faded and the air grew quiet and still. He climbed onto a nearby footstool. "Can you all see me?"

"I could see you from a mile away, sir, you're awfully tall," someone called from the back, eliciting some giggles.

"Oh, good. I won't climb any higher, then." He smiled and willed his voice to project. "Well done, all of you. I think that'll be the last big event we'll have to prepare for in a while. The last wedding we'll have to prepare for in a while, hopefully," he added, causing a swell of tired laughter. "Now, I know that it's a custom amongst the other chefs to make speeches afterwards, but I think we're all longing to be back in our homes as soon as possible so as to get some rest." Another appreciate laugh. "And we all can't leave until this place is nice and tidy, so let's get cleaning, shall we?"

His apprentices and assistants gave a short round of applause, punctuated by whistles and some calling out, "Well done to you, too, sir!"

Minyanónë gave a small bow and clambered down from the stool. Picking up a rag, he began to wipe up some syrup that had been spilled across a countertop.

Around him, the kitchen was bustling once more. Apprentices chatted to one another as they heaved the honey-scented pots about. An assistant grunted as he pulled a bag of flour after him into the storeroom.

"Need help with that?" Minyanónë called.

"No, I've got it, sir."

One by one, the apprentices and the assistants drifted from the kitchen. Restawen murmured a soft, " _Namárië"_ as she passed him, and he replied in kind. Soon, the kitchen was empty save for Minyanónë alone.

He dawdled, hoping to to avoid his father at home. But he knew that his father would not go to bed until his mother returned, and his mother was off stargazing again, so it would be well past midnight before he could return. Minyanónë thought he could stay in the Royal Kitchens for another two hours, rearranging spices and tidying corners.

Thus he was still there when, around midnight, the last person he'd expected to see in the kitchens appeared before him.

"Is this where the desserts are kept?" a soft voice asked.

Minyanónë, who had been staring idly at a jar of hazelnuts, started and whipped around. To his eternal embarrassment, he could not immediately speak. Instead, his mouth opened and closed without a sound.

The owner of the voice was startlingly, almost divinely beautiful. Her golden tresses trailed past her shoulders in shining waves and her skin glowed. But it was her eyes that caught his attention: _such eyes_ , he thought to himself. They held a lovely light, bright with some strong emotion. _Joy? Love?_

The lady cleared her throat, and he shook himself. "Apologies," he said, "I was…lost in thought." He gave a quick bow. It was an automatic action. He could not have said what it was, but something about her fairly radiated nobility.

The lady gave a nervous laugh. "That's all right. I was just wondering if…if there would happen to be some of those apple tarts left over. From the last dish at the feast?"

Minyanónë shook his head. "I'm sorry, the tarts were completely finished." Seeing her dejected look, he said quickly, "I could make some more for tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Could you?" the lady said, brightening. "That would be lovely. They were so delicious!" She gave him a thoughtful glance. "So you were the one in charge of the desserts?"

"Yes, Lady…um. Excuse me, but I don't think I know your name."

"Oh! How rude of me." The lady glided forward, her feet whispering over the smooth floor, and gave a small curtsy. "Lady Indis of the House of Ingwë."

"Huh?" The sound escaped Minyanónë before he realized how rude it sounded. "Pardon me!" He bowed for a second time, more deeply. "Queen Indis!" Desperate to make up for his previous lack of manners, he said, "It is such an honor to have you in my kitchens. That is, no, these are your kitchens. The Royal Kitchens." Wanting to kick himself but not knowing how to do so in a dignified manner, he bowed again instead.

"No, no. Please don't." The Queen raised him from his bow. She was as tall as he, even when he stood completely straight. "You should not have to bow. Your desserts made my wedding…magical."

Not knowing what to say, Minyanónë merely said, " _Tarinya,"_ hoping it would be an appropriate response.

The Queen smiled, but a faint line appeared between her fine brows. "Ah, yes. I am Queen now." She repeated in a quieter voice, as though to herself, "I am Queen now."

Minyanónë stood with his hands dangling awkwardly. The radiance had faded from the Queen's eyes. She looked almost lost. He did not like this look on her; she seemed, to him, to be have been created for laughter and joy. "Is everything all right, _Tarinya_?"

"I…yes." The Queen took a step back. "I suppose this is just a bit new for me, this title." She smiled again, a puzzled smile, and retreated another step. "I'm sorry for the bother about the tarts."

"It would be a pleasure to make them again," he said, keeping his words soft, like a dusting of sugar. He felt that if he were any louder, if his words were any heavier, she would flee like a startled deer.

"It is kind of you," she said.

Her words were weighted with a gratitude that surprised him. _This is just a bit new for me,_ she had said, the words as fragile as the snowflakes that landed on the top of Mount Taniquetil. Despite her height, she looked very small all of a sudden in the large kitchens. Minyanónë pictured how she must have felt amongst the dark-haired Noldor during the wedding, and he thought, _Isn't this ironic?_ _Who could have imagined it? A pastry chef feeling sympathy for a High Queen._

But she hadn't been a Queen before, had she? And she'd likely never lived long amongst the Noldor, who were not exactly known to be the most welcoming of the Eldar.

"If it would please you, _Tarinya_ ," he said gently, "I could make the tarts with the plums that grow on near the base of Oiolossë. I was hoping to experiment with the recipe anyway."

The Queen's eyes widened. "Could you?" she said again, and her voice was husky with longing. "I do so adore the plums of Oiolossë."

"Of course," Minyanónë said. The light was coming back into her eyes, and he felt absurdly proud of himself. "You are always welcome to request for a dessert, _Tarinya._ You need only to ask."

"Thank you. Oh, no." She laughed a genuine, pretty laugh. "I don't even know your name."

"Minyanónë, _Tarinya,_ " he said. "That's what everyone calls me. Minyanónë, the pastry chef."

* * *

 **A/N:**

Character Guide:

 _Restawen_ (lit. "aid") - an apprentice to Minyanónë *

* fictional character

Quenya Guide:

 _Ilvana -_ perfect

 _Oiolossë_ \- another name for Mount Taniquetil

 _Tarinya_ \- my queen


End file.
